


and i'll throw these words out there like confetti at the wedding you and i never had

by majesdane



Category: Repo! The Genetic Opera (2008)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-20
Updated: 2009-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:01:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Once Mag knocked over the bottle of ink by accident.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i'll throw these words out there like confetti at the wedding you and i never had

i remember more the silence in each others arms than the conversations about how we felt.  
\-- _pleasefindthis_

 

 

There was a time when Marni decided that she was going to learn calligraphy; Mag would put her hand over Marni's, let it rest there lightly, feel as Marni practiced lines and lines of letters. Once Mag knocked over the bottle of ink by accident, it spilled over onto the kitchen floor; Mag felt it splash against the tiles, splattering over her feet and ankles. Mag was near tears, but Marni just laughed and kissed the tears away.

And she took Mag's hand in her own, knelt down, dipped her forefinger in the pool of ink, wrote their names on the tiles, framed it in a heart.

Later, Mag would trace her fingers along the faded stains, close her eyes, remember the way Marni's hand felt on hers, her hand on the flat of Mag's back, the way her hair smelled of strawberries.

Marni says that she's writing a book, a thousand words for every moment of Mag's life. She says she writes a page a day, but she'll never be finished with it, because every moment is more beautiful than the last, and she's running out of words to describe the colors of Mag's eyes, how she looks under the stars or in the pale, warm light of morning.

Marni covers Mag's breasts with her hands in the shower, palms flat against them. She presses kisses to Mag's collarbone and shoulders, so light that Mag can barely tell them apart from the hot water splashing down on them both. Mag reaches out, catches Marni's arms, pulls them together. Water drips from their lips and noses and runs between their bodies in little rivers. Mag kisses her and tastes the warm water; it leaves her feeling empty and dissatisfied.

There is what she knows and what she is uncertain of, and nothing falls into place like it should, always getting stuck in the middle ground and frustrating her without end. She is sure that Marni loves her back, kissing her knuckles and finding an old braille typewriter and figuring out how to work the keys, just so she can leave love notes around the house. But then there are the times when things are not quite as poetic or simple, when Mag feels the familiar ache in her heart and it seems like everything is fading and Marni is slipping quietly away from her.

And she can't say those three little words without feeling like that, without feeling like she is on walking along the edge of a precipice, the fear of falling off, of falling apart. But she's pretty sure that Marni feels the same way, and maybe if they both feel like this, if they can just reach for each others' hands in the silence, lace their fingers together, maybe there isn't a need for words.

Years later, Marni won't be writing a book; it'll sit tucked away in a drawer somewhere with a picture of her when she was nineteen, along with a lavender blouse she accidentally left at Mag's house once. All those memories, tucked away so neatly, out of sight but never out of mind. And Mag writes letters -- letters that will never be sent, will never be read, will go straight into that drawer with everything else, one on top of each other, dated and signed, all tied up together in a bundle with a black silk ribbon.

She's got blue ink smeared all over the side of her palm. It still feels funny, writing with a pen and paper, instead of just with a monitor and keyboard. It's like reading to her now; it feels old and new all at once, because it's not the same, reading with her eyes instead of her fingers. It feels strange. Foreign.

It was Marni who taught her how to read, when they curled up on the window seat in the bedroom, with Margaret Atwood's words on their laps. She remembers that line -- _you can either hold on or let go_. Marni said it in such a pretty way. Such a sad, pretty way.


End file.
